No Greater Love
by Nighteyes27
Summary: Lark, Rosethorn, and Crane. And the relationships between them.


Title: No Greater Love (1/1)  
Rating: R (mature themes)  
Pairings: Lark/Rosethorn, Rosethorn/Crane, Lark/Frostpine, Frostpine/Skyfire  
Summary: Angsty Lark reflects on her relationship with Rosethorn and Rosethorn's with Crane. Dark; no happy ending.  
Setting: Discipline and Lark's mind. Post-Sandry's Book, pre-Briar's Book.  
Author's Notes: 1) This ficlet came out of a discussion on the tortallslash group; basically, it's that Lark and Rosethorn are in love, but Rosethorn sleeps with Crane semi-often. How does Lark feel (Written before I read Tammy's comments on 's message boards that Lark doesn't mind Rosethorn's on-again, off-again affair with Crane)? 2) I know that Tammy has said that Lark's a lesbian, but things like that can be bent, so I did. 3) The actual quote is something along the lines of, there's no greater love between one man and another than one's laying down his life for the other. But some things are harder to lay down than one's life. 4) For all you doubters, Lark/Rosethorn _is _canon, as is Rosethorn/Crane; as I said, see 's message boards.  
Disclaimer: Lark, Rosethorn, Frostpine, Skyfire, the children (Sandry, Briar, Daja and Tris), and any gods invoked are all the property of the wonderful Tamora Pierce; I don't own them or their rights. I'm making no money off this, no harm is intended, no copyright infringement intended. You could sue, but, considering the state of my finances, the net gain would probably be negative. ;-)

I sit at the kitchen table where we take our meals and thank Mila that the children are gone for the next few days. For I certainly would not want them to see me like this. I have _some _dignity and pride and self-respect left. That is something, at least.

I take a swig from the mug and sigh. The mead burns my throat as I swallow it straight down; no need to sear my taste buds and my throat at the same time.

Lakik's balls. I've always had a strong tolerance for alcohol; my unusually fast metabolism means that I can't get well-and-truly drunk. The Goddess knows that that's been a source of major irritation for me; although, when I couldn't make my living as a tumbler any more, sometimes I put food on the table by drinking competitions and wagers. So I suppose that it evens out. But right now, I'd give almost anything to get so drunk that I could barely stand upright or see. Then I'd wander down, find some willing Dedicate and lay with her or him, and try to keep my demons at bay by setting a frantic pace of rough lovemaking.

Then, when my partner had fallen asleep, I'd lay awake staring at the ceiling, despising myself for sinking to _her_ level.

I've done it before, you see. But it doesn't help.

Once. One time. And then Frostpine looked at me with pity in his eyes and told me straight out, "It doesn't help, Lark. Trust me, I know."

Considering the way that he looks at Skyfire sometimes, I don't doubt that he does.

And considering Rosie's reaction, I don't think I have it in me to do it again. She came home after one of her nights with _him_, and the heartbreak and betrayal in her eyes was shattering when she realized what I had done. Because what she has with Crane is _different_, don't you see, Lark, it's not the same, and what I feel for him, it's not a tenth of what I feel for you, and I thought you understood....

It's rather ironic, isn't it? Ironic that I had to wait to be invited back into her bed for a month after I had my tryst with Frostpine, and she is off with _him_ all the time and I eagerly, gratefully invite her back into my bed and into my arms immediately, without pride.

Do you know how disconcerting it is to be making love with your lover and smell another's scent on her, on territory that should be yours alone?

I am well aware of how pathetic it is. How pathetic I am. How pathetic we all are.

Only I can't help it. I love her so desperately that I can put up with anything. Almost anything. I'd leave if she hit me. But she'd never raise a hand to me.

No, her wounds are much more hurtful, much more permanent, much deeper.

Time for another mouthful of mead, to drive the dark thoughts away. To try, anyway.

I don't think she realizes what this does to me.

I don't know what she'd do if she did.

I don't know what would be worse: if she stopped it with _him_ or if she didn't.

Because if she didn't...well...what does that say about our relationship? Self-explanatory, that one is.

But if she did...she'd grow to hate me. Hate me for causing her to have to give him up.

I think she would if I ask. But I won't because she would hate me, no matter her protestations otherwise.

So it's a vicious circle. Winding Circle, indeed.

Because she does love him, no matter what she says.

I shake my head, swallow down another mouthful of scalding mead. The whole point of drinking was to escape the situation, and here I am, wallowing in self-pity and obsessing over it.

And the scary part is? I'll welcome her back after this time, too.

What kind of temple society lets—no, _encourages_—people who love someone to still lay with someone else? Someone that, to all outward appearances, they despise?

Why do I need her so badly?

I mean, she's a fantastic lover, yes. Attentive and loving and gentle and everything I could have ever asked for.

Maybe she lets her rough side go with only _him_.

And if so, is that a good sign or bad sign?

But there are other people who would be just as fantastic lovers.

I throw my head back and take down the rest of the mead; there was only a few mouthfuls left anyway.

Why, of all the dedicates I had to pick to fall in love with, did I pick the one who can't or won't love me back with everything she has, to the exclusion of everyone else?

Why do I love her so much that sometimes I think that my heart will stop beating, burst with its force?

I guess it's because, when the children are here and _he_ is nothing but a memory for the moment, I look at her, and the sunlight catches her eyes _just right_ making them that warm liquid brown shade, and she looks at me and I look at her and it's _perfect_. It's _right_.

I guess because you can't help these things.

Maybe it would be simpler if I just left. And the Goddess knows it'd be much less painful.

But I can't. The children. _Sandry_. Need me. Cornflower blue eyes would haunt me forever if I left her now. Can't. I'm her mother now. It fills a void in both of us.

Maybe I should just die, easier to leave all around. Maybe I should just knock my one solitary candle over, and pretend to be asleep....

And I shake such maudlin thoughts from my head and stand up.

It's still dark out, and drizzling slightly, and it's not like I have to worry about coming upon _her_ on her way back from him. She always slides beneath my sheets when dawn is almost upon us.

But I'm going to go to the bathhouse. At this time of night, there should be no one there. I can jump into cold water to clear the last of the alcohol from me, and feel clean, and come back, and try to sleep before Rosie gets back.

Or I will go talk to Frostpine, above his forge. I feel his magic; I know he's still awake, despite the hour. Pining over Skyfire, probably.

Maybe I'll lay with him; maybe it would be a good way to finally end this twisted parody of a relationship we have. Maybe I'll let her be the one waiting for her lover this time; maybe I'll be the one sliding under the sheets and smelling of another. Maybe this time, when I'm banished to my own bed, I'll make no attempt to return to hers.

Above all, I must leave Discipline now. Because letting myself sit here and be sucked under by my self-pity. Is. Absolutely. Unacceptable.

I try to convince myself that the moisture on my cheeks are tears as I walk down our beaten path alone.


End file.
